“It sounded like it to me,” Tess says.

“Why on earth would you give him the boot?” June asks.

“We hardly see each other. He’s busy, I’m busy.”

“So?” June buries her hands in her pockets and looks at me.

“So? It’s a pretty big deal that we barely lay eyes on each other.”

“Everybody’s busy. Do you think people get less busy as time goes on? It gets worse. I’m busier now than I’ve ever been, and if I sat down and tried to figure out why, I couldn’t. There’s no ideal situation out there. A shot of a good man even once in a while is not a bad thing.”

“I hear you,” I say. When it’s good with Roman, it’s the best it can be. I sometimes think that the good stuff blinds me to reality, sways me to keep trying. But is that enough? Should it be?

“You have a perfect situation.” June pours herself a cup of coffee. “You see each other, you have fun, then you go your separate ways. I’d be with a man myself right now if they didn’t eventually nag me to move in. I don’t want somebody in my house twenty-four/seven. I like my own life, thank you.”

“My sister wants a family someday.” Tess puts the hyacinth in the front window where the sun can get to the clusters of starburst petals. “She’s traditional,” Tess says.

“Am I?” I ask aloud. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly traditional. I guess I appear to be one of my tribe, but the truth is, whenever I have the opportunity to walk the hard line of tradition, I balk.

The entrance door creaks open. “Hi-yo!” Mom calls out in the vestibule.

“In here, Mom,” I holler.

Mom comes into the shop roaring like a March leopard in a spotted trench coat fit for the random rainstorms of spring. She’d be a March lion but she looks pasty in solid beige, and besides, leopard print is her trademark. Mom wears black leggings, shiny black rubber rain demiboots, and a wide-brimmed patent leather rain hat tied under the chin with a bow. “Are the girls ready?”

Tess goes to the foot of the stairs and calls for her daughters. They don’t answer. We hear her shout, “Okay, I’m coming up.” Tess goes up the stairs.

“She really needs to get a grip on those children,” Mom says softly.

“She’s hoping you will. Where’s Dad?”

“Home. He’s not feeling so hot today.” Mom forces a smile. “He’s exhausted from the treatments.”

“They’re working, aren’t they, Mom?”

“The doctor says they are. The radiation team at Sloan is very optimistic.”

For the first time since Dad was diagnosed, Mom looks tired to me. The constant appointments have taken a toll on her. When she’s not running my father to the doctors, she’s educating herself about his illness. She reads about what he should eat, how often he should rest, and which holistic supplements to take and when. She has to go out and find all the stuff, the organic food and medicinal herbs, then go home and prepare the dishes, strain the tea, and, then, the hardest part of all: force my father to follow the regimen. This is a man who would sprinkle grated cheese on cake if he could. He’s not exactly a compliant patient, and it shows on my mother’s face. She hasn’t had a good night’s rest in months, and it’s clear to me that she needs a break.

“Mom, you look exhausted,” I say gently.

“I know. Thank God for Benefit’s LemonAid. I smear that concealer on the dark circles under my eyes like I’m buttering bread.”

June pours Mom a cup of coffee. Mom takes the mug and is about to put the cup down on my sketchbook. I push it aside and give her a rubber cat’s-paw heel for a coaster instead.

“What can you do?” Mom sighs and sips her coffee, holding the mug with one hand and opening my sketchbook with the other. She absentmindedly flips through it. Then, she focuses and stops on my recent sketch for the Bergdorf shoe. I’m just about to pull the notebook away when Mom says, “My father was so gifted.” She holds up the sketch and shows it to June. “Look at this.”

June looks at the drawing and nods. “That man was ahead of his time. The wide straps, the button details. Look at the heel. Wide at the base, into a spindle at the tip. Completely courant and the man has been dead ten years.”

“That’s not Grandpop’s sketch.” I take a deep breath. “It’s mine.”

“What?” June takes the sketchbook. “Valentine. This is brilliant.”

“That’s the shoe we’re going to make for the Bergdorf competition. At least, that’s the one I’m going to show Gram, and if she likes it, we’ll build it.”

“You really have the gift.” June puts the sketchbook down on the table. “Wow.”

“Genetics. It’s all in the DNA. Good taste cannot be learned or bought.” Mom tightens the belt on her trench coat. “It is inborn of natural talent and honed with hard work. Valentine, all the hours you’re putting in here are paying off.”

“That’s quite a shoe,” June says. “Complex. How are we going to build it?”

“Well, I’m hoping I can find some of the elements in Italy.”

“Good, because we don’t have embossed leather like that in this shop. And that braiding-I’ve never seen anything like it.” June shakes her head.

“I know. I just…dreamed it up.”

Charisma and Chiara run into the workroom. “Aunt June, do you have any candy?”

“What did you give up for Lent?” June, the fallen-away Catholic asks them.

Chiara stares at June. Charisma, no fool, steps forward and answers her, “Well, we don’t give up candy, we just try and do good deeds.”

“And what would those be?”

“I’m nice to the cat.”

“How kind of you.” June opens her purse and gives each of them a peppermint candy.

Charisma makes a face. “But these are free at the Chinese restaurant.”

“Yes, they are. So stop and thank them sometime,” June says. “The Chinese are the backbone of civilization. They invented macaroni and flip-flops.”

Unconvinced, Charisma and Chiara, holding their lousy candy, look at each other.

“Okay, kids, let’s go. Grandpop is waiting at our house.”

Tess helps the girls into their coats. “Mom, thanks so much for taking them for the weekend.” Mom herds the girls out the door.

June is happy to see them go, though only I would know it. “Aren’t they delightful.”

“Sometimes.” Tess says, pulling on her coat. “I’m late. I’m going to meet Charlie at the Port Authority. We’re taking the bus to Atlantic City.”

“Romantic weekend planned?” June asks.

“His company has a convention. I’m going to play the slots while he looks at the latest smoke alarms,” Tess says as she goes. The entrance door snaps shut.

“Smoke alarms? To put out what fire?” June whistles low. “I say buyer beware and run. There’s your best advertisement for marriage, Valentine. Take a good look.”

A cold draft from the open window wakes me. I sit up in bed and look out, pulling the cotton blanket and down comforter around me. Snow. Snow in March. The West Side Highway is a carpet of white, with black zippers of tire prints made by the early morning delivery trucks. There’s a doily of frost on the windowpane, and a layer of icy flakes on the sash.

I slept peacefully through the night. Alone. Roman was busy with a sold-out seating, and had to finish the prep work for a private party, so he crashed at his place instead of coming over and waking me. Gram comes home tomorrow night, and while I’ve enjoyed my run of the place, I have to admit I miss her.

I spent most of yesterday cleaning and putting things back where they belong. I did some research for our trip to Italy and found some new suppliers to visit in addition to Gram’s old reliables. I found some interesting new-guard talent who make braids and trims. I’m hoping to meet them on our trip, and add them to the roster of suppliers we currently use. I want to deliver a shoe to Bergdorf with embellishments that Rhedd Lewis has never seen before. Italian designers have recently been influenced by the in-flux of talent from a new sweep of immigrants, so I’ve come across lots of Russian-, African-, and Middle European-inspired accents in buttons and trim. I can’t wait to show Gram the new stuff.